A rusty swing of memories
by elinnne
Summary: Sam and Dean are having difficulty dealing with their need for each other.


It wasn't so much the fight with his brother that had him going in.

Usually, fighting with Sam wasn't that big of a deal, and even though Sam had been pretty upset, Dean refused to feel bad about it. His baby brother had deserved every pained word, every last glare.

But honestly, that wasn't what had drawn him to the shabby old place. It wasn't even the cute barmaid.

No, Dean couldn't really explain it, but he somehow knew he needed to be inside those worn walls, he needed to sit on one of those sticky bar stools, and he _needed a drink_. So when the barmaid looked up at him, her expression turning from bored to hungry in the fraction of a second, he just looked at her with tired eyes and asked her to give him anything she had. She probably heard a pun where non was intended, because she smiled at him in a way that would usually make his head game-ready and his pants yearning for the floor. Instead, he turned around and stared across the room.

It was surprisingly busy for such a scruffy place, and the interior reminded Dean of the motel they were staying at. He caught himself wondering whether Sam had stayed in the motel room or gone for a walk. Deciding on the latter, Dean turned back around to face his drink. The barmaid had remained in front of him, although there were plenty more costumers to tend to. Looking at her now, Dean noticed how her chest seemed to shine with moist, and how one single drop was running its way down, in between her well-fitted breasts…

"Rough night, huh?" She said. Her voice was soft and low as she leaned down and rested her elbows on the counter.

Dean merely growled as reply. He knew the girl's tactic because he had seen it time and time again. Her top dropped half an inch further down, revealing even more of her strutting chest, and he couldn't seem to look away. He normally wouldn't have dreamed of being this obvious, but he was tired and he really just needed something to take his mind off Sammy.

"What's your name?" her voice was deeper now, more certain of his intentions.

All defenses dropped, every last nostalgic thought of Sam, even the little voice in his head that said this wasn't worth hurting him over. "Dean," he growled, eyeing her hairline as tan, healthy face drew into dark, voluminous hair.

She smiled, or smirked, however sexy, and from her lips escaped a small sound, almost like a barely audible moan. An indication of what was to come, perhaps – he didn't think much over it. He knew he'd had her in the bag from the minute he walked in, and he didn't care how it happened.

As if to secure the deal, he said, "Now then, how did you know my favorite drink?" indicating to the half-empty glass in front of him.

She chuckled in a girly fashion, and eyed him even more intensely.

"Well, _Dean_, how would you like to come with me and get some more in the back?

He shrugged, and then said, in a seductive, yet boyish manner, "Alrighty then."

–

A mere hundred yards away, unaware of his brother's conquest, was the reason for Dean's emotional state, sitting at an old swing set in an abandoned playground.

He was worrying.

Not for the case, nor for his own troubles, but for his brother. Dean had stormed off in one of his tempers, and who knew where he could be. Sam really hoped he was somewhere safe, blowing out steam in any harmless form he could think of. He just hoped with all his might that his brother wouldn't go _looking_ for trouble. Sam knew his brother could take care of himself, that had been proven time and time again since they were kids, but if Dean went and got his eye black or wrist broken, Sam would have to be the one to patch him up. And he just didn't think he could manage that.

His feet scraped at the rugged old grass as he swung slowly back and forth. The long legs looked oddly bent in the twilight, and even odder seemed his figure in the dark, the long masculine body on the little swing, made for much smaller bums than his. He found it strange that he had once fitted perfectly in a swing much like this one. His growth spurt had come at the awkward and fatal age of sixteen, jerking him from a average boyish frame to a raging 6'6" in a matter of months. He remembered Dean's annoyance when Sam reached his height and then just kept on growing. He'd loved walking past Dean and being able to look _down_ on him, for once. He was so used to always looking up to his big brother, both on his physical appearance and mentally that it was a strange, yet liberating feeling finally being the tallest.

He had grown accustomed to the stature fast, taking advantage of it whenever he could. He started choosing groceries from the tallest shelves, just because he _could_. Their father had found the bickering gushing from the change between the two boys entertaining, at times even rib-cracking. But that was many years ago, and neither of the brothers seemed to notice the height gap anymore. It didn't matter much in their rows either. Dean had such a deadly tongue and right fist that it made up for any physical advantage Sam may have. It had been long since their fists had reached out in contact with the other's jaw, until the events of earlier that day. Sam couldn't remember when they had fought last; their existence had felt so calm and natural until Dean exploded with rage. Thinking back, Sam couldn't even remember what had triggered him. Could it have been his remark on the toothbrush on the floor? The way his hip has casually caressed the back of Dean's hand as he walked past with a small towel wrapped around him?

Sam shook his head, forcing the image out of his head. Touching his sore lip where Dean had punched him, he realized now that he had acted too daringly. Dean needed his personal space; it was nothing more than too much time being spent together, too little space and time to themselves that had prompted him.

Sam's feet were beginning to go numb in the cold, damp air. He made to stand up, brushing his hands on his murky pants, when he suddenly became aware of movement nearby.

His reflexes were incredible; within the next second his eyes had trimmed the lot and his gun was retrieved from the back of his pants, ready to shoot at what was threatening him. But no more sound came. Sam stared into the forest, over at the road, the buildings at the other side of it… nothing. But then, when he unexpectedly saw the brown leather jacket moving out from behind a tree, he didn't know how he had missed it in the first place. Now it seemed so visible to him that he felt embarrassment creep from his cotton collar, the slight blush lurking up his neck and covering his face. He prayed to god Dean wouldn't see in the dark.

"Sammy," Dean cleared his throat, and Sam's knees became weak with humiliation.

"It's you," was all he could master saying.

Pause.

"Is this where you came? …After?" the question lingered in the air for a moment before Sam caught his breath and moved a step closer to his brother.

"Yeah," he shrugged. Then curiosity took him. "Where did you go?"

Dean looked at him quickly, then away, but his fleeing gaze had told Sam exactly what he dreaded. As if the little spring in his step hadn't told him already. Sam had seen post-sex Dean many times, and he always walked with that adolescent spring, the air of heavenly carelessness, after a relief.

Sam exhaled sharply. "What was her name?" He tried to hide the bitterness, but it proved impossible. He could feel Dean's eyes searching his face as he looked anywhere but into the pained face of his brother. He wished he could shut out the quiet of the night, Dean's piercing observation, and take off into the dark.

Then Dean said his name and he wished to be nowhere but right here. It was barely an audible murmur, but it shot through Sam's body like a bolt of lightening. His eyes darted to the familiar shape of Dean's eyes, and he knew that if he moved those couple of steps between them he would be able to see the green of his eyes matching the tired green of the autumn grass…

Before he could move, however, his brother had closed the gap between them and was staring directly into Sam's face. "What are you doing?" Sam whispered, but it was too late. The intensity of Dean's eyes was doing things to Sam's body that he had never experienced before. By the time Dean had placed a hand on each side of Sam's face he was long gone into the familiar fuzziness. Dean pressed his fingers gently towards Sam's temples and slowly forced his head closer to his own.

And when their lips finally met it felt like years to Sam, years of wanting nothing but this, of waiting for this exact moment, and the feeling took over his body, his hands, his lips, he was all lips and tongue and teeth and Sam had never felt anything like it. So strong and forceful, yet so gentle and loving. Dean's hands were pressing his face even closer, and Sam yearned to touch every part of him, to feel him, to be at one with him. His hands were roaming up and down Dean's sides, pressing their bodies together, and when that proved not enough he snaked his hands underneath Dean's layers of clothing, past the leather, beyond the flannel and under the soft cotton of his t-shirt and finally, _finally_, he felt the warmth of his brother's sides underneath his fingertips. Electricity seemed to explode from the tips of his fingers as he traced up and towards Dean's back, longing to touch every part of his body and needing more, so much more, _now_.

He felt his name erupting from Dean's lips moving along with his own, and it just made him need his brother _that much more, _and he was moaning back into Dean's mouth, begging. The moan dragged on as Dean's hands let go of his face and grabbed his hips, hard, driving them into his own chassis.

"Dean… Please…" He didn't know what to do but beg. At that Dean's lips left Sam's and attacked his throat, leaving butterfly kisses and harder sucks along his collarbone. And Sam was groaning into the night, because this was the best he had felt in forever, there was nothing he had wanted more than this.

Dean took hold of his hands, still roaming for more, entwined their fingers and started pushing Sam back towards the old swing, leaning his back on the trunk of the enormous tree there, and in the shadow of the trunk, where no one could see, Dean started peeling Sam' jacket, then shirt, then tee until the skin of his bare chest was gleaming in the soft light from the road. Dean looked at him then, taking in his whole body, and neither said anything, but both knew that _this_, this was the happiest they had been since they were kids.

/fin.


End file.
